


Of Cats and Canaries

by Hagar



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Authority Figures, Backstory, Gen, Humor, One Shot, POV Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-21
Updated: 2011-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagar/pseuds/Hagar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s like giving a kitten with a bow around her neck to an avid dog-person. Or: how Ms. Jones was assigned to OSP, despite Hettie Lange’s renowned dislike of intelligence analysts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cats and Canaries

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by Sailor Sol, who also helped with the title.

The personnel file is innocuous enough, at a first glance: born 1985, graduated _summa cum laude_ from the University of Chicago in 2007, recruited to NCIS half a year later. The anomaly that landed it in Director Vance’s queue takes a second to spot: three promotions in the two years that one Nell Jones, 24, has been with his agency.

He makes a point of keeping an eye on anything unusual that goes on in his agency, and among his agents. Any data sequence that deviates from the norm more than a certain measure lands in his queue. Jones is on the fast track; that merits attention. In itself, though, it doesn’t merit more than a cursory scan and a note to keep an eye on her. More unusual than the string of promotions is the lack of letters or notes. He hasn’t expected any reprimands, not with that record, but the lack of recommendations is suspicious. This is something that may require action, and the file itself does not tell him all that he needs to know.

He thinks about it for a moment, glances at his schedule for the day, and then calls Jack Wyatt, who has promoted Jones out of his desk the week before.

Wyatt answers on the third ring. “Wyatt.”

“This is Director Vance.”

There’s a split second silence, and then Wyatt says: “Yes, how can I help you, Sir?”

Vance smiles, thinly and fleetingly, with no real humor. This would be make for another anecdote of his omniscience, and the reputation is one he does enjoy. “Nell Jones,” he says.

“Brilliant analyst, Sir,” Wyatt says promptly.

The answer is a bit too prompt, and a bit too vague. “So I gather,” he says, voice mild. “You recommended her promotion in four months.”

Wyatt’s tone shifts towards cautious. “Yes, Sir.”

“She must have made quite the impression.” Vance takes a beat, knowing its likely effect on the analyst. “Care to elaborate?”

“She’s exceptionally bright. Creative.” Barely perceptible beat. “Very invested in her work.”

 _Ah._ Vance had heard that particular string of adjectives, before. He knows what it usually stands for. He can grill Wyatt, but the man’s voice fills in what his words don’t say. “Thank you, Wyatt.”

“Certainly, Sir.”

Vance puts the receiver back in its cradle, and contemplates it a moment before considering his schedule again.

The matter of Ms. Jones will have to wait for the next day.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he walks through Ms. Jones’ previous supervisors. The song remains the same: bright, quick, invested. The very word “firecracker” is mentioned once, albeit from a peer, even if said peer is nearly twice Ms. Jones’ age. The facial expressions that accompany these verbal reports are apprehensive, withdrawn, shifty, once even hostile. They’re the ones he expected to see.

He makes it to the bullpen of Jones’ current desk just in time to see her leave her supervisor’s office with the door slammed behind her back. She passes right by him without looking up. The top of her head does not make it more than halfway up his arm, despite her five-inch heels. The thought that his twelve-years-old daughter must weigh more than her comes unbidden, but at least he manages to suppress the smile easily enough.

Smith gets to his feet before Vance is through the door.

“Director.”

“Good morning, Jim.”

They sit down.

“What brings you down here, Director?”

Vance indicates with his head towards the now-closed door. “Her, actually.”

Jim is a full agent, and had been working intelligence for quite a few years. Caution, relief and curiosity play across his face in equal measures, but there are no anger or distaste. “Dare I ask?”

Vance takes a half-second, and remarks: “Quite bold for her second week in this office.”

“You should have seen her on her second day.”

He quirks up an eyebrow. “Not her first?”

“At least that.” Jim shakes his head. “I have little more than a first impression for you.”

“I already talked to her previous supervisors.”

Jim nods. “In that case. I’d say that she’s the smartest person in the room and well-aware of that fact, but is yet to learn that it’s not everything. Not even the most important thing, sometimes.”

“She needs to be housebroken.”

Jim smiles a little. “Are we still allowed to say that?”

Vance smiles too as he pushes himself up. “Let’s pretend we didn’t.”

Jim stands up, too. “Care to be introduced?”

“I think i’ll make it a surprise visit.”

Jim’s smile turns wider. “I’ll be grabbing a coffee, then.”

 

* * *

 

Jones’ shoulders are tense. That’s easy to see, approaching her desk from behind. Her space is already cluttered with notes and files, bunched and organized with various note-holders and folders that are most certainly not NCIS-issue. Vance considers several options, and then just stands about a foot behind her chair and to the right and waits.

It’s quite a few moments before she notices he’s there and glances up, and then another full second before her pupils widen. “Director!”

“Ms. Jones,” he says, keeping his face blank.

Her shoulders don’t pinch closer. Her pupils remain slightly dilated, but her forehead creases, ever so slightly, even as she leans an inch forward. “May I ask what brings you here?” A flush colours her cheeks almost immediately, but her chin rises rather than falls and she makes no move to take her words back.

“Just passing through,” he says, and watches the sequence of emotions on her face: wariness dismissed, another frown and then innocence plastered over the curiosity that preceded it.

“Of course, Sir,” she says, a little too politely, and he can see her eyes dart as she searches for just the right question.

“How are you settling in to your new assignment?” he asks.

“Well enough,” she says, and these are the least true words he’s heard her say yet, “but this algae thing would go a whole lot better if we had access to any of the academic data portals, like, say, Ovid, or WOK.”

There was certainly no mention of algae in any of the briefs he’s read. He blinks. “What do algae have to do with smuggling routes?”

“Well, did you know that algae blooming patterns are one of the most sensitive indicators of the volume and type of marine traffic, and that algae migration patterns can pinpoint exactly where said traffic has come from, and through where?” The animation she picked up with each word broke to genuine, if slightly over-expressed, frustration. “It can be used to crack new routes faster than anything, and I know portal subscription is not cheap but it’s cheaper than satellite hours, and this would all go so much faster if I had proper access!” She withdrew her hands to her lap, frustration stuffed under surprisingly real guilt. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...”

So she was properly aware of her situation. Just too involved, too impatient, and perhaps too young to know how to best deal with what she was given. “That’s all right,” he cut her off before she could pick up steam again. “Have a good day, Ms. Jones.”

She blinked, mouth opening a little, but the “Of course. You too, Director,” came at no delay at all.

He could almost feel her eyes boring into his back as he walked away; he could certainly imagine that concentrated frown, the embarrassment of slamming a door at her direct supervisor or babbling the Director of the Agency set aside in favor of a riddle.

Firecracker, indeed.

 

* * *

 

Hettie Lange’s face, as she answered the video call, was the picture of equanimity. Vance knew that was soon to change.

“Hello, Leon.”

“Hello Henrietta.” Rather than give her time to assess him and come up with her own tact, he promptly said: “I’m assigning your office an intelligence analyst.”

Predictably, she fired off: “You most certainly will not.”

“My mistake,” he said with fake agreement. “I have already assigned her to you.”

“Leon, I do not need any more intelligence analysts.” Henrietta Lang’s exasperation was a thing of beauty, even when it was directed at him. “As a matter of fact, this office could do with half as many as we do have.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, “and yes, you do. OSP has been without a primary operational analyst for more than three years, now.”

She bristled. “Mr. Beale is more than enough; any additional analyst will only slow procedure down, and that would be _quite_ detrimental to OSP operation.”

“This one won’t slow things down at all,” he promised her. “And you can’t intimidate her away.”

“Oh yes, I can.”

He smiled, almost despite of himself. “I’m pretty sure even you won’t manage that,” he said, “and not because I would tell you to. Which I’m not. If she can be intimidated away then you’re quite right, and she doesn’t belong there.”

Hettie’s eyes narrowed. “What _is_ this analyst you’re sending me?”

“A very bright, very promising young professional,” he promised her.

That, of course, reassured her none at all. “What has this very bright, very promising young professional done to earn exile from the hub of NCIS operations?”

“Really, Hettie, would I send you damaged goods? OSP is far too valuable for that kind of treatment.” She would see right through his pretense, of course, but at least he had her curiosity engaged; and besides, she always did take pride in building up those that others would give up on. It was one of the things that made her so effective as OSP Operations Manager.

“And it’s not like you ask for my opinion on the matter,” she said, still as suspicious, a little bit snidely, but also at least somewhat resigned. “As it’s already done.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m sending you her file now; she’ll report to duty Monday morning.”

Hettie huffed. “Good day, Leon.”

“Good day, Hettie.” With the video call terminated, he pressed the button of his intercomm. “Send her in, Cynthia.”

A moment later, tiny, redheaded Nell Jones stepped in, apprehension and curiosity warring a close battle. “You wanted to see me, Director?”

“Yes,” he said. “Your current post is terminated,” he said, watching the flicker of horror on her face. “You have three days of leave. On Monday morning you will report to duty as operational intelligence analyst at the Office of Special Projects in LA.” He picked up a folder from his desk and held it out to her. “This is what you need to know.”

“Sir, but I have never...”

He held the folder a little higher. “I know, Ms. Jones.”

She gulped, stepped forward and took it from his hand. “Um, thank you?”

He smiled a little, deliberately. “Save that for after you’ve met SAC Lange,” he told her. The words _Is this some sort of punishment?_ were very nearly written across her face, so he softened his voice and added: “You’ll do well there, Ms. Jones. I wouldn’t have assigned you there if I’d have believed otherwise.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then said: “Thank you, Director.”

He waited until after she was gone to lean back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

This one would be entertaining to oversee.


End file.
